Sorely Misunderstood
by WickedHarmony
Summary: some 4am drabble i cooked up about draco malfoy. angsty. nothing special.


**random one-shot, just wanted to write something for the sake of it. **  
**disclaimer: i do not own harry potter, nor am i making profit off this story. this is for entertainment values only and to be shared with others.**

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Draco Malfoy's life was sorely misunderstood.

His surroundings were bleak; the curtains, once elegant and cultivated were now tattered and destroyed. The colour beneath the thick living of dust, emerald green, was sparsely recognized now when he walked through the forgotten interior, beholding to his weary memory of being his once noble bedroom. The further he walked, the further his internal spasm wrenched at his heart. His bed sheets were equally as same as the curtains, the floorboards creaked even under his light weight and he couldn't conceal the horror that perverted his sharp features. Every glance, every breath, seemed to remind him of a distant and forcefully dishonoured memory. From the stained mirror of his mahogany dresser to the broken lamp that was mangled into pieces across the night table--his former night table--he was continually twisted to the nausea that overwhelmed him because of even his smallest belongings, laced with such malice and disheartened emotion that he could barely conceal his own. His forsaken memories hid behind the small trinkets of his dresser, to the dingy cologne bottles and untouched, bristled comb. His memories laid shattered just as his dignity was the moment his family had turned over their house to the Dark Lord, so wicked that Draco could not possibly comprehend anymore the shock that coursed through him, his memories that were once better left forgotten were now being reviewed. He felt a heavy lump increase through his throat and he swallowed at it hollowly, grimacing at the pain that swelled down from it and to his chest like that he had ate something that wasn't carefully ground down; he felt it expand through his torso in the most demeaning of ways and it filtered to his eyes, stinging at the rims with restrained tears. His home, once so honourably attended to was now nothing but a disregarded mess, it was nothing more than like a toy a toddler was no longer interested in playing with. It would rot for the remaining of it's days, and it made his guts coil in repugnance. What could've been was now what was not, and with trembling fingers, he slicked back the coarse strands of his platinum hair. He too, just like the house, had let himself go.

He gingerly sat down on top of his bed, the mattress creaking underneath him. The stylish wallpaper, now tarnished yellow, was peeling from every corner of the room and he ran his stiff fingers along the course texture, revolted by the layer of filth that coated the tips of his fingers when he recoiled his touch. So much was wrong with his manor, so much was wrong with how hauntingly the time had passed by with the disgusting events that took place. It seemed like years ago it had been the second wizarding war, when Harry Potter had been face to face with Voldemort, when he had the profound capability of winning the fight that had so desperately dwelled on. If he had done what was requested of him, everything would be alright with the remainder of the world; his manor wouldn't be as gruesome as it was right now, it wouldn't be as shameless as it was vile; everything again, would be what it could've been. Yet, irreversibly, it was not what everyone had hoped it to be, and he found himself shrinking into his mattress as if to shield himself from the thoughts that invaded his mind, that licked like a scolding fire against his exhausted brain. Potter had not won the fight. Famous Harry Potter, ever gracing the world with his pathetic presence had failed the entire wizarding world, had ruined his family and his honour to such an extent he felt undeniably jaded, foiled, Draco was nothing but a mess of complex rage and emotion that he could do absolutely nothing to solve. Potter had left everybody a mess, his death had made only the Dark Lord's dreams pursue in the most horrific of ways, and Malfoy was now isolated and shunned from the world around him. He had only the clothes upon his back to be proud of, and nothing more. Not even the fact that he was still living registered through his mind positively and he choked back a bitter yell of resentment, his fingers now clutched at the dirty sheets that clothed his bed. Stupid, bloody Potter. If anybody had known how weak the Gryffindor was, it was him; it didn't take much to look behind those eyes and realize that there was no courage there, only hate. Hate that he had to be the Chosen One, that his parents had to die, that he would have to suffer ultimately in the end. Weak, spoiled, Draco's jaw tensed and his figure hardened like stone, memories and emotional all flooding back to him when he had years to push them behind him. There was no use for anything anymore, no joy, only cold resentment, remorse. Reality had withered into it's own putrid nightmare, and Malfoy had watched it all bloom before his eyes; he had been a part of it. If only anybody knew how deeply he regretted it, how it pained him everyday.

Just like the manor, Draco had once thrived beautifully. His image was nothing but what was expected of it; coming from the Malfoy family, he was a polished figure from head to toe. Bound to stop anyone in their tracks (as long as he didn't speak his cruel words) Draco was once what everybody was jealous of, and his family's manor was more than equally presented as so. Now, all his poor choices from his past rebounded and tore against him. His manor was rubbish, his family name was rubbish, and he now considered the very dirt upon Voldemort's shoe, as was his family. They hadn't spoken in years to each other. Draco almost forgot that he had a Father or a Mother, but retracing his past reminded him exactly how naïve he'd been to his glorious lifestyle. He'd abused it, and he'd destroyed it. No, Potter destroyed it.

Potter destroyed everything.

Potter destroyed his life, his very being, everything he was and was now. His manor was nothing but long forgotten, his family was the very essence humiliation if spoken of and Draco dared not to even show his face. This was where he belonged, it was where he always belonged, and swinging his legs up against the mattress to curl underneath the foul sheets, Draco set his head down against his ragged pillow.

Like everything that could've been, that should've been, Draco Malfoy got what was coming to him one way or another, even if his life was sorely misunderstood.


End file.
